My grandfather d/ie/d with full military honors, my parents inherited the estate and the money, and all I got was one envelope and my father’s cold little laugh—until I landed in London with a one-way ticket, stepped into the rain outside Heathrow, and saw a uniformed driver holding a sign with my name like my grandfather had sent me on one last mission nobody in my family saw coming.

My father leaned toward me with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I suppose he didn’t think you were worth much more than a stamp, Jo,” he whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear.

I felt the sting of his words more sharply than the October wind, but I kept my spine straight, remembering the discipline Grandfather had instilled in me since I was a child. I took the small, heavy envelope with a steady hand, noting the wax seal embossed with the initials J.M.R. for Joseph Maxwell Rhodes.

After the meeting dissolved into clinking wine glasses and talk of property values, I stepped onto the porch to breathe. The rolling hills of the countryside felt alien now that the man who guarded them was gone, and the laughter coming from the house felt like shrapnel.

I broke the seal and found a one way ticket from Dulles to London, along with a brief note written in the General’s unmistakable, sharp handwriting.

“Josephine, you have served with quiet integrity while others sought the spotlight, so now it is time you see the true scope of our duty,” the letter read.

I walked back inside to find my father pouring a glass of expensive bourbon.